


Stop

by shadowsamurai



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsamurai/pseuds/shadowsamurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His head lolls back a little, a hissed breath leaks out from between his thin, compressed lips. By now he should feel numb, but he doesn't, and he doesn't understand why. He's taken enough, more than enough, in fact. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he's taken too much. Maybe it's time he stopped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it. ;)

SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH

He thinks that maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all, but it's far too late now to go back. Normally he's fine. Normally it doesn't bother him. He doesn't know why this time is different. Or perhaps he does know, he just doesn't want to look at the reason too carefully for fear of what it might say to him. Of what faults of his own it will illuminate. Of what it might change him into.

His head lolls back a little, a hissed breath leaks out from between his thin, compressed lips. By now he should feel numb, but he doesn't, and he doesn't understand why. He's taken enough, more than enough, in fact. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he's taken *too* much and it just isn't working like it should. But then, that seems right. He feels like, lately, nothing is working as it should do.

He's always been a particularly solitary man, and happy that way. Seems cold to some, downright ignorant to others, and just plain strange to the rest. But he doesn't care what people think or say, or how they act towards him. At least, he never did. Now, though, he feels a little differently. It started with the landlady, a tough woman who brooked no nonsense from him, yet was receptive to his charms, when he chose to use them. And he found himself using them more often than ever before with her. Their relationship is a curious one; he has no doubts that the landlady would be glad to be rid of such a troublesome tenant, yet at the same time, he knows she would miss him terribly. He has never understood the workings of the female mind, and after a few years of one constantly being around, he's definitely none the wiser. Not that he minds. Yes, they argue. Yes, she complains and he ignores her. But he knows she cares; he can feel the affection emanating from her, and he hopes that she knows he is at least a little bit fond of her.

He groans and turns to one side, in a vain attempt to empty the cloying thoughts out of his head, but all he succeeds in doing is making himself feel nausea with the movement and almost falling out of the chair. It's never been this bad before, and he should know, he's been doing this for quite some time now. But why, all of a sudden, does it feel bad? His analytical mind wonders as he stares at the ceiling. He should be alert by now, cheerful by now, but he isn't. Why is that?

It takes a few moments, but the answer comes to him. He's decided. It's *his* fault. The good doctor's. As if it wasn't bad enough the doctor had to up and leave him once before, just when he was starting to trust and relax and *care* so much about another person... As if that wasn't bad enough, the doctor has now gone and done it again. Upped and left, only thinking selfishly, not thinking about him, about his friend.

Of course he realises that he is actually the selfish one, not the doctor. Not his friend...his brother. Closer to him than Mycroft, who is related by blood. Maybe that's why the doctor left, he wonders. Because of his selfish habits. Because of his difficult nature. Because of the drugs now ravaging his body. Normally he enjoys the escape, revels in it and relishes it. Not now. Not today. And he knows that the doctor's absence is the reason it feels so different.

It's a vicious circle, he can see it clearly; the doctor left because of his habits, or so he thinks, and he clings to those habits because the doctor has left. One of them needs to break the cycle, but which one will it be? He instinctively thinks it should be the doctor, then almost laughs at the irony of the thought. He could do it. He could stop the circle of pain. If he wanted to. Given enough incentive. But then, he wonders, how much more incentive did he need? He already had a friend closer to him than his own brother, a friend who gave up so much for him, including leaving his first wife at a minute's notice just to help him out. A friend who showed him that it was alright to care about another person. A friend who, most importantly, put up with every one of his quirks and habits. And what did he do? Pushed that friend away.

The decision was made in a split second, a minor miracle considering the state he was in. It was time to make amends. To do something completely out of character and apologise...if only he could make his legs work. With an enormous amount of effort, he pushed himself to his feet, only to promptly collapse onto the rug in front of the fire. So, the decision was still made, but it would have to wait. He had to stop feeling so ill to start with. He had to stop a lot of things, really, he thought to himself as he stared at the ceiling.

He hears the door to the sitting room bang open, hears footsteps cross the room hurriedly. He knows he should know those footsteps, but his brain is too fuzzy to realise who it is. Strange, that. Usually his special medicine sharpened his mind, not dulled it. Maybe it was time to stop.

Strong hands pulling him to his feet, a familiar voice laced with angry concern. He should know that touch, that timbre, but he can't for the life of him think who it is. Maybe it's time to stop.

Suddenly he's on his bed, water being poured down his throat, a cold compress on his face. Strong hands, slightly roughened. A familiar voice, angry and concerned and generally frustrated at him. Footsteps pacing back and forth, simply waiting for the drugs to clear his system, if only a little.

"You've really gone and done it this time, haven't you, old man?"

That voice, so full of concern, the anger fading along with the drugs. The doctor. *His* doctor. He doesn't deserve him, tries to tell him so. The doctor looks at him for a long time, or at least he thinks he's looking; his own eyes are closed but there's a familiar prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

"No, you don't, but this is what friends are for," the doctor tells him.

He decides he likes that, having a friend and beings friends with someone, because whether the doctor knows it or not, he would walk through fire and ice for him. For any slight wound inflicted on the doctor, he would cause ten times the amount of harm on the attacker. Because they are friends, and he has never realised that fact with such clarity before. Perhaps the drugs did some good after all.

"Holmes, I really think it's time you stopped..." The doctor trails off, his voice cut off by pure emotion.

He stares at the ceiling once mores and thinks to himself; could he stop for the doctor? The answer is easy: it's yes. Made all the easier because he knows the doctor is right beside him. *Will* he stop for the doctor, though? A tougher question, still an easy answer. No. Couldn't make that decision just for someone else. But he can stop for himself...*will* stop for himself. With the doctor right beside him. He *will* stop for himself...for both of them.

In time.

FIN


End file.
